A Christmas Gift

Published by HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd

77–85 Fulham Palace Road

Hammersmith, London W6 8JB

www.harpercollins.co.uk

First published in Great Britain by HarperCollinsPublishers 2014

Copyright © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2014

Cover photography by Henry Steadman (woman); Other photographs © Monty Fresco/Getty Images (child); Carl Mydans/Getty Images (snow); Alamy (fir trees); Shutterstock (all other images)

Cover layout design © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2014

Ruby Jackson asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

Source ISBN: 9780007506316

Ebook Edition © October 2014 ISBN: 9780007506330

Version: 2014-09-19

This book is for my American sisters, Susan A, Trisha S, and Holly McG

Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty One

Acknowledgements

Churchill’s Angels ad

Wave Me Goodbye ad

Churchill’s Angels Extract

W6 Book Cafe

About the Author

By the Same Author

About the Publisher

ONE

January 1945, Somewhere in Egypt

Not for the first time Sally wondered how she would cope. They were so young, younger even than the boys who had been at school with her – children some of them, not even the slightest shadow of down on their soft, young faces.

‘Pull yourself together, Sally Brewer. You’ve seen injured servicemen before.’

I know, she argued with herself, but they were all nicely bandaged and in clean hospital beds. She shuddered as she relived climbing out of the lorry to find herself turning to face three field ambulances. From each ambulance, injured men in bloodied, torn uniforms were carried gently, but as rapidly as possible, into the field hospital.

What use here was a pretty girl in a pretty dress? It was capable hands they needed.

Sebastian, as always, was just behind her, and, as always, seemed to read her thoughts. ‘Come along, Sally, there are medicines that don’t come from a pill bottle. A smile from your beautiful eyes does wonders. I know. I’ve seen it. Wear the silver frock tonight. They’ll think you’re the Christmas fairy.’

Two days later.

‘Come on, Sally darling, let’s go over that number again.’

Sally pulled off her uncomfortable but very flattering long blond wig and threw it across the room at Prince Charming who did not, at that moment, look at all attractive. His blond peruke was bouncing on the top of his own thick brown hair and likely to fall off at any moment.

He caught Sally’s wig, stuck it on top of his slipping peruke and ogled her. ‘Arr, but you’re a dainty wench, and I don’t doubt these soldier lads’ll be slobbering at your door in a minute.’ Just as quickly he changed back to serious. ‘I can hear the clumping of the great clods already, Sal, and we have to get the number right.’

‘The only thing that can be heard approaching over sand, Sebastian, is an armoured vehicle. These men are not clods, and I have the dratted number right.’

‘Darling,’ he held out his arms in supplication, ‘it’s not my fault we’re doing panto in the desert in January. I think the CO sounds like a really decent chap. Imagine some of the permanently constipated officers we’ve met over the years suggesting a pantomime. And Father Christmas. Wait till you see me as Santa Claus.’

‘They’ll never believe that you’re Santa, Sebastian, you’re too tall and too thin.’

‘Picky. Let me tell you, Cinderella, that when the engineers and two of the nurses from the hospital have finished with me, Father Christmas himself will have doubts about his authenticity. Think, Sal. Some of these boys have been away from home for two, even three, Christmases. Realistically, odds are that more than one of the youngsters who follow you around like puppies will never see another Christmas. Lovely idea to have a late one and it is only January. Pretty please, I’d rather not dance by myself. One does look rather a fool.’

The ENSA company was stationed in an abandoned settlement somewhere, they believed, in the Egyptian desert. Apart from a half-finished aircraft hangar, their accommodation consisted of a ruined, deconsecrated church, its dilapidated hall and several barely standing wooden huts. There was one rather tired-looking date palm growing, or perhaps not – they could not be sure.

One of the young soldiers from the army base had told Sally that the presence of the tree showed that there was, or at least had been, water there. ‘All you need to survive in the desert,’ he had assured her almost gleefully. ‘Perfect food, the date; it’s got everything one needs to sustain life.’

Fervently Sally prayed that his theory would never have to be put to the test.

Now, as even the usually sunny Sebastian began to growl, she uncoiled herself from the rather elderly armchair and stretched. ‘All this agony and it’s not as if there’ll be even one child in the audience.’

‘Au contraire, mon ange, some of those boys aren’t twenty yet. The hangar will be packed with children in uniforms, and all of them needing a good laugh or to ogle a gorgeous girl. Come along, let’s give it a twirl – and show a bit more leg this time.’

‘Show yours; they’re better than mine, and besides, it’s a waltz. Millie’s instructions were decorum, decorum and … and decorum.’

‘Come on, Cinders, wrap that shawl round your waist as if it’s your ball gown. Then – with decorum – use your thumb and middle finger to lift your skirt oh so frightfully genteelly. That’s it. Gadzooks, I saw some calf there. Scrumptious.’

‘You are an idiot.’

‘But lovable. You, Cinderella, were lifting the wrong side; left hand for skirts while dancing, right hand for while climbing stairs. Good rule.’

‘Whose rule?’

Sebastian smiled rakishly. ‘Grandmamma’s. A truly terrifying woman, as you know, darling, so please don’t force me to send for her.’

Sally said nothing. She had heard of her co-star’s formidable grandmother many times before but whether the lady actually existed she still, after almost four years, had no knowledge.

They left the hut styled ‘Stars’ Dressing Room’ and moved to the war-scarred hangar, which was serving as a theatre.

‘The engineers, bless them, have made this place almost presentable,’ Sally said, looking round admiringly.

‘The boys will be pleased. We should cut down the date palm and decorate it.’

‘Don’t even think about it, Sebastian. The lads I was talking to yesterday swear they’ll get dates from it soon.’

In the surrounding area, several companies of Allied troops were stationed and too many of them were in the makeshift wards. Most waited for orders and trained for who knew what day after day. Some would be repatriated, possibly in the plane that would take the ENSA company home. Some were still too ill to move and would be forced to remain until the overstretched medical team got them well enough to travel.

It was the wounded whom Sally thought of most often and for whom she worked. As leading lady of this small troupe, she would star as Cinderella but she would also be expected to sing and dance in choreographed short pieces and, since both she and Sebastian had acted on stage and had appeared in film – he was a former child star – and were quite well known, they would take part in several selections from popular plays or films.

Sally loved every minute of her work with ENSA. She knew just how much a favourite song, a smile, a touch of the hand, a blown kiss meant to so many of these men and she worked just as hard on a hastily knocked-up stage – thanks to the Corps of Engineers – as she did on the London stage. She knew Sebastian well, having worked with him in several productions and shared his London flat. At another time, he could have been an Academy Award contender. Perhaps he would be some day. And so to the waltz of the handsome prince in his satin suit and his mysterious princess in her glorious gown and dazzling glass slippers.

‘Let’s try to work it out with my hand on your shoulder,’ Sally suggested. ‘Once we’re in sync I’ll try hitching up poor old Cinders’ magic frock. You hum something.’

His right hand immediately found its way to the top of her hip. Once that touch would have set her on fire but that was long ago now. Sally smiled, not at all sad to acknowledge it now meant only that her partner was ready to dance.

For once he did not begin.

‘Hum, Sebastian.’

‘I hate being asked to hum. All I can think of is “Rum and Coca-Cola” and I’m sure that’s not three-four time.’ He hummed the calypso.

‘Where’s the dratted pianist when you want him?’ Sally muttered in exasperation.

‘Do you know, my angel, that your frown has just reminded me that one of the Russians, Tchaikovsky perhaps, wrote a ballet, Cinderella?’

‘Bound to be a waltz in it and that would be rather terrif, wouldn’t it? Hum it.’

Sebastian saluted. ‘I would, mein Führer, but the old brain must be slipping a gear because nothing is coming.’ He looked at her face and saw signs of an impending storm. ‘I’ll just count. Right, one two, three, one two three …’ He stopped counting and dancing and incidentally stood on Sally’s foot at the same time.

‘Good Lord,’ he yelped.

‘You called, m’lord?’ came a voice from behind the stage, and a burly man in an elderly overall walked across to the piano.

‘Gus, my angel, just when we needed you. Cinderella can’t waltz, comes of doing nothing all day but sitting by the fireside poking the cinders. Can you produce a waltz, perhaps from Tchaikovsky’s ballet?’

Gus pulled up the ramshackle stool that stood near the piano. He and Sally looked at it rather doubtfully. ‘How’s this theatre’s insurance cover, Seb? These little beauties are worth a fortune.’ He wiggled ten short, stubby fingers before them.

‘What’s left of my entire Christmas and blessed New Year’s Day alcohol allowance,’ said Seb by way of answer. ‘Even in sunny downtown Egyptian desert there appeared the odd bottle of something to go with the turkey. Rather an odd bouquet, like pressed dates.’

‘I put my faith in the army,’ said Gus, tentatively approaching the stool. He pressed down on it. There was a crack like the sound of a pistol shot. ‘Solid as a rock,’ he lied, and sat down. He played a few notes and stood up. ‘This hasn’t been tuned since it was built and the bloody thing’s a Bechstein. Should be shot, whoever owned it.’

‘It’s a piano, Gus.’

‘It’s a helluva lot more than that; it’s a casualty of war, Seb. This here is one of the greats. You should know that. How the hell did it ever get here? Unforgivable.’

‘Can you do something to help it, Gus?’ Sally asked gently. She was surprised by just how upset this burly man was, and, although he was new to this company, she knew that he had managed to survive some gruelling years in the conflict.

Gus smiled. ‘I sure as hell am not going to plonk out a waltz or anything else on it for you till I’ve had a good look inside. If you can hum a few bars I’ll whistle Cinderella’s waltz from the ballet, Prince Lanky Legs.’

He did not wait for Sebastian to answer but began to whistle a lovely tune. Gus’s whistle was in a class of its own, a musical instrument.

Cinderella and her prince waltzed effortlessly round the stage. Sally was quiet when they stopped. She had danced, eyes closed, safe in Sebastian’s familiar arms to music she thought she knew. For a few minutes she had been a world away from war and disaster, dirt and pain.

‘Thank you, Gus. That was perfect. Was it the Cinderella waltz?’

‘Naw, haven’t heard that. That was vintage Irving Berlin.’ He took Sally into a hold and began to dance with her, singing as they moved.

A familiar cold splinter pierced Sally’s heart. She tried to ignore it and smile. ‘“What’ll I Do” … lovely old melody, Gus. I do hope you can heal the piano.’

‘I’ll do my best – and then I’ll see who I can blackmail into sending it back to Blighty with other equipment.’

‘They’ll say it’s not equipment, Gus; hardly the same as a three-ton lorry.’

‘It’s Equipment – vital to mental health, His Majesty’s Forces of. Watch me. I can out-argue any barrister.’

Two weeks later, the company climbed into the cab of a large army lorry to be driven, together with a few lucky soldiers who were being repatriated, to the nearest safe aerodrome. Sally had driven over every type of surface in every kind of weather – over hills, across riverbeds, through swollen rivers – but the trip across the desert was one of the most unpleasant. First, there was no actual road; secondly, it was so hot that it was difficult to breathe, and just touching a metal part of the lorry could cause quite a painful burn. Sally’s preconceptions of Egyptian scenery had suffered several blows on this trip. She had expected miles and miles of sand dunes, with here and there a small oasis, exactly what she seen night after night in the films she loved watching from the projectionist’s booth at the Dartford cinema where her father had worked since his return from the battlefields of the Great War. Yes, there were miles of sand dunes, but to her surprise there were hills – not tall dunes but actual hills – most multistriped by coloured bands of what one of the soldiers told her were minerals. Once she saw a camel, his robed rider seemingly oblivious of their presence as he made his measured, stately way across the sands.

He has to be able to see us, she thought, but he chooses to ignore us. Whose side is he on?

The almost biblical figures disappeared from view just as a wind sprang up. In a moment the air was full of stinging grains of sand that invaded everywhere: eyes, hair, mouth, the tiniest uncovered area of skin. It was as if they were being stung by a million malevolent bees. Sally covered her face and her hands were attacked. She was grateful that sensibly she had decided to wear trousers for the journey but how she wished she had worn a long-sleeved blouse.

‘Here, miss, take my shirt.’ A young soldier had removed his long-sleeved khaki shirt and was offering it to her.

‘Oh, how kind,’ she said, ‘but I can’t take your shirt.’

‘I’m used to the sand, miss, and me mum’ll be right pleased with me helping Miss Sally Brewer. She were a cleaner at the Adelphi years ago; always said you was one of the nicest lasses as came through the doors.’

‘Write your address on this paper,’ said Sebastian. ‘When we get home, Miss Brewer will send you a signed picture and one for your mum.’

Sally had been wondering what on earth she could do in return for the soldier’s help, but once again Sebastian had stepped in, knowing exactly how to handle the situation. She had been to see a play at the Adelphi, but had never worked there and so was quite sure that the young soldier’s mother did not know her at all.

‘I’ll wear your shirt till we’re aboard,’ she told the young soldier, ‘but then you must take it back. Can’t have you found short of uniform.’ Then she told him stories of her friends Daisy and Rose Petrie, who were both in the women’s services. Neither Daisy nor Rose would have recognised themselves but they would have applauded Sally’s ability to tell believable tall tales.

Much later than expected, the lorry reached the aerodrome where an Albemarle transport plane was waiting.

In the notoriously uncomfortable aeroplane, Sally sat huddled in blankets. It was too noisy for her to attempt to sleep, but lulled by the drone of the engines, she allowed her thoughts to wander and memories flooded her mind.

Monday, 4 September 1939

Sally was awake long before the bell of her alarm clock shattered the silence. Yesterday had come the terrible news that Britain was at war and she, like thousands of others, had lain awake for hours worrying about the future. But her future, she decided now with rising excitement, was secure. She hurried along the little passageway to the bathroom where she spent some time – and most of the hot water – getting ready for this most important day. She had a new costume to wear, bought for her by her three best friends. The last word in fashion and perfectly suited to her tall slim figure, it was bound to make her stand out, to show the director that she was destined for success. Today Dartford, tomorrow London and … Sally laughed at her own ambition … some day – Hollywood.

She took out her lipstick and then replaced it in her little purse. Her parents would not approve of bright red lips before breakfast. She could apply it, as she had done time without number, on the way to her appointment. But she could at least apply mascara to enhance the blue of her eyes, and ensure her long blue-black hair was perfectly in place.

‘Oh, Sally pet, how grown-up you are,’ her mother, who looked as if she had not slept at all, greeted her as she walked into the little kitchen. ‘Ever so sophisticated,’ she added, shaking her head in happy disbelief.

‘I need to impress the director of the school, Mum. I want to come home tonight to you and Dad and tell you about all the opportunities I’ll have.’ Spontaneously she hugged her mother. ‘I want to show you that I was right not to accept a place at a university. You’ll see, Mum, the stage is where I belong.’

‘Then eat your breakfast before you head off, our Sally, or you’ll be too weak to make any impression.’ Her father who, like her mother, was still in his comfy old dressing gown, had come in and was sitting in his usual place. ‘You look right nice, but I never heard Margaret Lockwood’s stomach rumble.’

Sally laughed as she sat down beside him. ‘You’re right, Dad, it would take the bloom off a bit, wouldn’t it? But please, Mum, just toast and a cuppa; I’m too excited to eat.’

Exactly forty-three minutes later, she was standing before the closed door of Oliver Dantry’s Theatrical Training School, sure that her life-long dream was shattered. On the door was a notice.

DUE TO UNFORESEEN CIRCUMSTANCES

CLOSED FOR THE DURATION.

Below the huge black letters was a small handwritten sentence: ‘I’m sorry and will be contacting all students.’

It was signed simply ‘Oliver’.

Sally was so gripped by shock she was scarcely able to breathe. As she collapsed against the forbidding notice, careless of the costume of which she had been so proud, her thoughts were racing one another round and round in her feverishly working brain.

It could not be true. There had to be some ghastly mistake. What were ‘unforeseen circumstances’? The actual outbreak of war? But what had war to do with a college closing down, the college she had worked so hard to be permitted to enter? All those dreams of working in a jolly theatre company, earning the respect of the other actors, of getting a big break, playing a glamorous leading role to universal acclaim … and then, very soon after, the movies – it was all supposed to start here, today, at Oliver Dantry’s Theatrical Training School.

She pictured her parents. Her mother would be making quite sure that her spotless home was indeed spotless. Her father would be in his beloved projection booth, handling the magical reels of film with experienced, caring hands; those films that had been her inspiration since she was old enough to sit still in front of them, starring actors whose faces were as familiar to her as her own. Her parents would be thinking of her, imagining her excitement as she sat in a college classroom – if there was a classroom in a theatre school – trying to persuade themselves that they were pleased that their only child had abandoned the prospect of a university degree for a dubious future in the theatre.

What could she do? Hammering on the door would solve nothing. It was obvious that the building was empty. ‘The duration’? How long was ‘the duration’? ‘Over by Christmas.’ That was the pathetic little phrase that appeared in all her school history books. The Great War had gone on for years after that first Christmas.

‘No, no, no …’ Sally sobbed loudly. Eventually her weeping abated and then, embarrassed in case she might be seen, she blew her nose in a most unladylike fashion, took a deep breath, straightened her spine, and walked away smartly.

Sitting in the Albemarle, she moved slightly, in an attempt both to banish the memory and to make herself a little more comfortable. She was not proud of how she had behaved that day and preferred instead to remember when a letter had finally arrived from Oliver Dantry.

It hadn’t started out as a red-letter day. She had expected to begin working full time as an usherette in the cinema now her theatrical training had fallen through. Selling ice cream and bars of chocolate was no substitute but she knew she had to do something useful. But that hadn’t come about either. Her parents said nothing but they must have been thinking that had she accepted a university place she would now be preparing herself for a prestigious future. They had made no secret of their dreams that their bright, talented, only child should have a good education, and go on to be the first member of either family to graduate from a university.

‘I’ve ruined all their plans,’ Sally scolded herself. ‘I’ll never be able to make them proud of me. Because of my wilful pride I have neither university place nor theatrical training. Look at me, cosseted, spoiled Sally. If the Government hadn’t closed all theatres and cinemas I’d be a cinema usherette; that’s a long way from top of the bill. Instead of studying literature at university I’m taking a first-aid class – and I know I’d be useless in an emergency.’

She closed the leaflet ‘How to Prepare Your Home for an Air Raid’ as her mother called from the bathroom, ‘Sally, be a love and turn on the gas under the milk pan while I fix my curlers; your dad should be passing on his fire-watching round and maybe he’ll pop in for some cocoa.’